A Knife, a Stranger, and a Scarf
by Cyri's Alter Ego
Summary: I am Gau Meguro. I am thirteen years old. And I am about to fall into the world of Nabari. T for blood and the most miniscule bit of Raikou/Gau.


_Just a little insight into how Gau came to join the Grey Wolves. Because Gau is unquestionably my favourite Nabari character ^^ __There's a little bit of Raikou/Gau if you squint, which I do._

_I don't own Nabari no Ou - thank you, Kamatani-san!_

* * *

><p><strong>A Knife, a Stranger, and a Scarf<strong>

* * *

><p>It was raining on that day. I remember.<p>

Not much. It was a misty drizzle that swirled around hands and clung to eyelashes, and made everything that slightest bit damp and heavy. It wasn't much.

I lay on the ground, under the orange glow of a solitary streetlight. My cheek was pressed against the wet, gritty tarmac, covered with a faint dusting of snow. I could feel blood trickling sluggishly from a cut above my eye, and my knuckles felt raw where I had tried to swing a punch and hit a wall instead. My aim had never been that great.

Must keep quiet.

Must keep still.

Must let him think I'm dead.

Footsteps sounded behind me, jarring and hefty. My heart began to thump. Everything was painful. The streetlamp's light filtered through my closed eyelids, but still I did not twitch, and kept my breathing as shallow as I could. If he didn't think I was already dead, maybe he'd think I was close to it, and leave me alone.

There was a low, slurred "Huh" of satisfaction from behind. Blood bubbled under the surface of my skin and for one wild moment, I almost leapt up and challenged him, but sense won out and I stayed where I was.

A boot was suddenly jammed into my side, hard. Surprised, the breath rushed out of me as I was kicked over and my head scraped the ground, but I stayed limp, and I don't think he noticed, because he had started to laugh.

And then he was walking away, footfalls unsteady and cackling like a maniac. He paused. There was a terrible crack. This earned a particularly loud guffaw from him.

A sick feeling rose in my throat. I gritted my teeth furiously.

When I was sure he had gone, I opened my eyes and raised my head. For a moment, dizziness overcame me, and my body throbbed in protest, but I did my best to ignore it. At once, my eyes were drawn to the dark, huddled mass a few feet off.

Several of her bones had been broken. The unnatural angles they lay at proved that. But what made my breath hitch in my throat was her face. Her eyes were wide and blank, darker than they had been in life, and her mouth was slightly open as though she were a little astonished. I took her in my arms, but she was hopelessly floppy. She looked right through me. She couldn't see me.

I whispered words to her. I shook her. I threw myself at her and wept bitterly into her glossy black hair. But by this time, death's ashy pallor was clear on her face, and I knew that I would never be able to rouse her again, for her hair only smelled of the cold.

My mother was dead. And I wanted to hurt the person who had done it.

A numb, icy chill swept through my bones, stopping my hot tears.

No.

I wanted to _kill_ the person who had done it.

My satchel had been ripped away and my belongings scattered around the deserted alleyway, but for once I didn't care. They could rot away in the damp. I could get more of anything I held in my bag. They were all useless, anyway.

_Useless, useless, useless-_

For some reason, the obvious questions were not filling my head - what was I going to do? Where was I going to live? I had no father, after all.

I knew I was supposed to be feeling bewildered, and upset, and utterly lost. I was supposed to be grieving. Instead, I only felt angry. I could think about everything else later.

The man who had killed my mother. If I didn't kill him, my heart would surely break.

I was old enough to carry her now, and so I did, skulking around the backs of streets until I reached our house. The lights were still on, bright and cheery like nothing had ever happened.

My mother's unseeing head lolled in my arms. Fresh tears sprang to my eyes.

No!

I set her down in her bed, and clumsily, I closed her eyes. I looked at her until I couldn't look any more.

She still didn't look as though she was sleeping. She looked as though she were dead.

Quickly, frantically, I rushed to the kitchen and scrabbled around until I found a knife sharp enough to do my job. It disturbed me how I seemed to have forgotten where everything was, and how my hands were trembling like pale spiders. In the light, too, everything seemed too bright and unnatural. I tried not to look at the stain of blood on my coat.

I wrenched my gaze away. Grabbing an empty bag with which to carry the knife, I made for the door. Just before I passed it, though, something made me turn back.

I had left muddy footprints all over the house.

She would have hated that.

I hated that.

I had half a mind to go back and clean them up, but no - no time, no time, no time, no time, no time...

I raced through the streets, and this time I didn't bother to avoid the crowds, the bright lights. I hardly saw any of it. I felt the knife rattling around in the otherwise-empty bag, and it felt somehow familiar. Lost. I didn't think about why I should feel that way.

In fact, I was so blinded by my mission that I careered straight into a stranger without even seeing him. I jumped back, alarmed.

"Oh! I'm dreadfully sorry." The stranger rubbed his head. "I wasn't looking."

My gaze brushed over him. He was young; still a teenager, really. He wore a dark coat, and his scarf, which, for some reason, was bright yellow, was draped artfully around his shoulders. And his hair was a vivid pink.

His words confused me. Hadn't it been I who had almost knocked him over? Why was he apologising to someone like me? Besides which I must have looked a sight - dried blood was matting clumps of my hair together, my bottom lip was split and swollen, and there was a huge tear in my overcoat. Why on earth was I in such a state? Why was this perfect stranger even bothering to talk to me?

Somewhere in the midst of my harried thoughts, I realised something. This wasn't anger speaking any more. It wasn't controlling me. I was thinking as _me_. Why was that?

What I _was_ doing, however, was standing gaping at the poor guy in front of me.

"Is everything okay?" The stranger moved forward slightly, and there was genuine concern in his eyes. I flushed.

I think that everything could have been fine then. Everything could have been alright. Things might have been dealt with properly, and I might have peacefully lived out my life, if my eyes hadn't flicked _ever-so-slightly_ upwards, and if I hadn't then caught sight of that cruel, haggard face somewhere in the crowd.

My mother's face lashed through my mind like a whip, burning its image onto my eyes and spurring me forward like a jockey would its horse. My ears beat loud with the roar of blood.

I had already forgotten the stranger. I muttered something inaudible and pushed past him. I ran.

With half an eye on the murderer's retreating back, I awkwardly unzipped my bag and took out the knife. I grasped it by the wrong end first and felt blood bead on my palm, hot and wet. When I managed to get it out, the blade glinted darkly in the swirling drizzle. It felt heavy in my hand.

An overwhelmingly heady feeling gripped me in its talons as I skidded into an alley, my trainers throwing up filthy, sparkling puddle-droplets. Now we were alone. It was just the two of us. I shouted something. My voice felt too loud and I nearly flinched.

It was a few moments before he turned. I stood firm, steeling my nerve. His eyes were unfocused and it took a little time for his fuzzy head to recognise me. I still stood firm, clutching my knife.

I didn't hear what he yelled, and I wasn't sure whether that was because he was speaking so drunkenly or because I was hardly paying attention. Then he stumbled towards me, and lunged for my throat.

Aiming for his stomach, I jabbed with my knife, but I overestimated its weight and instead scarcely grazed his side. My mind was a whirlwind of thought. My hand was still slippery from where I had cut myself, so when I tried to strike again, the blade snaked out of my grasp. I sucked in my breath. My mother's murderer slung a punch.

I felt my nose break and I fell. He kicked me. Once. Twice. Three times. Now tears were mingling with the blood on my face, making a stinging, salty mess. I cried out.

A little way off, I could see the knife I had dropped. A glimmer of hope shot through me. I made a grab for it, but I was too slow - he stamped on my hand and snatched it up himself.

I was dragged upright by my collar. As soon as I found myself in a standing position, I struggled, wrestling for escape, lashing out, my mother's screams in my ears... But he only laughed and shoved me at a wall.

The knife was at my throat.

I was pinned.

I froze.

As I stared like a frightened rabbit into the eyes of my killer-to-be, I couldn't quite believe life had forsaken me so easily. No romanticised visions of an angel had come to drag me out of hell. And not even a demon had come and pledged to help me exact my revenge.

The man lifted the knife.

I closed my eyes, and then there was the slash of a blade-

-and the murderer fell to the ground, dead.

Perhaps life wasn't ready to let go of me yet.

I dropped to the ground as soon as I felt the pressure around my neck loosen. The ground was damp under my knees and my hands were splayed out in front of me, unsteady.

Blood was beginning to stain the ground around the body of the murderer. I stared numbly, but the sight nauseated me, so instead I looked up at whatever angel had, at last, come to my aid.

It was the young man who I had bumped into in the street. He stood quiet, and calm, and his yellow scarf was still in perfect position. In his hand was a lethal-looking katana, but it was pointed down now, and streaks of blood dripped off the keen tip. He turned his head from the body and looked at me. For all his composure, his eyes held traces of intense sadness.

He sheathed the deadly sword across his back - how had I failed to notice it before? He took a couple of steps towards me - weren't his feet freezing in those sandals?

And then he offered out his hand.

This action must have triggered some insanity in me. Something irrational and ridiculous. Mad. Because despite everything, despite the fact that he had just saved my life and was perfectly beautiful for no obvious reason, despite all of that... I resisted him.

I struggled like a devil. I kicked and fought and bit and howled, and tears sprung to my eyes. It was all futile, however, because as I soon found out, he was vastly stronger. It seemed to take very little effort for him to pin my arms to my sides - although in order to achieve this, he ended up with his arms wrapped around me. They were lithe, firm, warm, and very, very scary.

"Dear me," he sighed. "No, everything is not okay, is it?"

I had stopped my attempts to escape by now, but only because I was as frightened as a trapped mouse. He was so _close_. I was hyper-aware of his katana, even though he had put it away, and the reddish mush of bloodied snow was a constant reminder of what it could do.

"It's fine, though," the stranger was whispering. I blinked. "I promise it'll get better."

His breath was tickling my ear, and my mind was swimming, and I was blushing, although I was sure he still wanted to kill me, but I probably looked hideous, and the smell of blood was making me want to be sick, and that stinging scarf was just visible in the corner of my eye, and I wanted my mother, and at the same time I wanted answers from this stranger, answers to important questions that were refusing to line up in my head, and when I tried to grasp at them they buzzed and darted away like flies...

I made a violent snatch at a question.

"What the hell is up with that scarf...?" I blurted out in a mumble.

The stranger looked surprised.

I could have torn out my tongue. "Oh, damn it, why can't I keep my mouth shut...?" Because he was equipped with a blade as long as my arm, after all, and now that I had insulted his choice of clothing, _surely_...

I flinched, face burning, and waited for the sword to slash at me.

But all I felt was a light tap on the side of my head. "Actually, I thought it was a rather nice colour," he breathed. When I searched for anger in his voice, I could only find amusement.

Amusement?

This was too much.

My knees buckled. I fainted.

Before I was pulled under into an oblivion that seemed to make far more sense than the world I had just left, though, I caught his voice again, and it sounded quite entertained.

"Well, that's one way to make an entrance into the Nabari world..."


End file.
